


Serendipity

by knoxoursavior



Category: DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Panic Attacks, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 00:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: Clark comes back from the dead, recovers, and integrates himself into Bruce's life, whether he likes it or not.Or: Bruce overcompensates, broods, but somehow ends up with a boyfriend anyway.





	1. my bones are safe

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[ART] Serendipity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580831) by [catgoboom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catgoboom/pseuds/catgoboom). 



> this is based on art by catgoboom which is amazing and so, so pretty. please do check it out on [tumblr](http://catgoboom.tumblr.com/post/173702544095/title-serendipity-author-clqrkkent) or on [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580831)!!!
> 
> chapter titles are from reese lansangan's home.

Waking up from death doesn’t feel like anything Clark thought it would. When he was a kid, hearing the pastor’s sermons about walking on water and turning water into wine, Clark always thought that resurrection would be like waking up from a good night’s sleep. He thought it would feel like bathing in the sun, like all the strains in his body would wash off and he’d be born anew. Mostly, though, Clark finds that he just feels like shit.

His head is pounding, his vision blurring. All he wants to do is get away, find a place where he can sit down, curl up into a ball, press his palms over his ears and keep his eyes shut tight until he can finally hear himself. He wants to scream and fly away, but his knees are shaking and he doesn’t know if he can take off without leaving a crater behind. He can’t do it anyway, not with all these people he doesn’t know staring at him like he’s a wild animal they’re trying not to spook. 

The Bat, though—he knows the Bat. He knows that it couldn’t be anyone’s fault but the Bat’s that he’s breathing right now, because even though Clark’s head is a jumbled mess right now, he knows that no one is as persistent to upturn Clark’s life as the Bat.

There was nothing for Clark, in death. No risk of his loved ones getting hurt, or innocent people getting caught in the crossfire between Clark and the people who want him out of their world. But it’s his world too, the only world he’s ever really known. He doesn’t love it in the same way he loves Krypton, because Earth is concrete where Krypton is an idea, something that could and could not have been, because he doesn’t think he would have been able to let the transgressions of the council go, just like his father didn’t.

Clark loves the Earth and its people despite their imperfections, because he grew up here and he knows there can be good in human beings. He knows they’re worth fighting for and that they’re worth everything he can give. He  _ has  _ given, again and again, slowly chipping away at himself until all he had left to give was his life. He doesn’t regret it though. He died knowing fully well what he was walking into and he doesn’t regret giving Lois and Ma more days on this planet he thinks of as home.

So no, there was nothing for Clark, in death. There wasn’t sunlight or peace or  _ hope _ . But there wasn’t love either, and Clark remembers that now as he sees Lois step out of a car, looking terrified and optimistic and sad all at the same time. Her eyes especially are sad and her hands shake when she reaches out to touch his cheek, like she’s afraid he isn’t real.

Clark feels a phantom sting in his right wrist where a messy scrawl spells out her name, and suddenly all of his focus is on Lois, cold to the touch like she’s the one who came back from the dead instead of him. It isn’t right, and so Clark wraps his arms around her and takes her away to somewhere safe, warm. He takes her back home.

  
  
  
  


Resurrection is a messy affair, but Clark finds that but he doesn’t have to worry about anything. Apparently, Clark has Bruce to thank for his funeral, several gifts sent to Ma when he was gone, and even  getting the farm back from the bank.

It’s a lot to make up for something that’s not even Bruce’s doing. Despite the thoughts that ran through Clark’s mind in his delirium post-resurrection, despite anything he said— _ won’t let me live, won’t let me die _ —when he was still coming back to himself, he doesn’t actually blame Bruce for his death. He doesn’t blame anyone, though Diana has been quick to say that if they were to pin the blame on anyone, it should be Lex Luthor for orchestrating the whole thing in the first place. Clark can tell Bruce doesn’t believe it though, because even when Bruce is joking about throwing his money away, he can’t look Clark in the eye for more than a few seconds.

“You realize you can’t stop us from finding a way to repay you for everything you’ve given us, right? Of course, it might take a while, but I don’t plan on going anywhere for a long time anyway,” Clark says, because Bruce is tense, turned towards the door like one word from Clark and he’d leave if asked. Clark—well, Clark recognizes guilt, knows it’s probably what pushed Bruce to do all those things for him and his only family, but he appreciates it anyway. He doesn’t want Bruce to leave, and he’s afraid that if Bruce somehow manages it, that maybe Bruce will find a way to never come back.

“You don’t have to. You’re not indebted to me, Clark,” Bruce says, and Clark wonders when that started, Bruce thinking of him as Clark.

Clark remembers when he was trying to figure out who the Gotham Bat was, so he could try to see the whole picture, see what made the Bat go from a vigilante who helps to one who turns a blind eye to any and all collateral damage. It wasn’t easy, but Clark wasn’t an investigative reporter for nothing, and eventually, the Gotham Bat became Bruce Wayne, tortured by the loss of a son in the hands of criminals he failed to save.

But when Clark came to ask for Bruce’s help, he was still Superman in Bruce’s eyes, still an alien, still a danger to the world. Clark doesn’t know if the shift happened when Bruce found out he had a mother he loved, or when Bruce had to see another body buried and the shift happened as a way to mourn someone who could have been a friend.

“You’re not indebted to me either, Bruce,” Clark says, softly, to lessen the impact. Still, Bruce clenches his jaw. Clark wonders what he has to do to take away even some of the weight on Bruce’s shoulders because no one deserves that much pain.

“It’s my money; it’s my choice what to do with it. A bank fits in nicely with all the other properties of Wayne Enterprises, don’t you think?” Bruce says, looking away from Clark, instead narrowing his eyes in the direction of kitchen where Ma is humming as she prepares some refreshments for the movers.

“Sure,” Clark allows. “It’s my time and money I’m offering as well, so I hope you won’t turn me away either.”

Bruce is quiet for a while, probably thinking of some way to turn Clark down. Clark is persistent though, and his Ma even more so. He also thinks that if it comes down to it, Lois won’t say no if he asks her to hound Bruce at Wayne Enterprises. Bruce isn’t the only one who can play at bullheadedness, and he’s outnumbered three-to-one.

“If that’s what you want,” Bruce says eventually, and he’s saved by Ma coming out of the kitchen with a tray in hand. Bruce moves to help her, and Clark decides he’s already done enough today.

He lets Bruce go for now.

  
  
  
  


Lois has always been one to stay late at work. While Clark always clocked out at five o’clock sharp so he could keep an eye out as Superman full-time, Lois was either typing away at her computer, brainstorming when she wasn’t putting on the last touches on another exposé, or out investigating another tip.

He thinks of Lois mostly keeping herself to fluff pieces for one long year while she mourned him, and it makes his heart clench. She’s taken another break now that he’s come back, under the guise of a family emergency, and Clark knows it’s her choice to make but he doesn’t think he can forgive himself for taking her away from the work she loves so much.

Clark can’t find it in himself to do something about it though, because he missed Lois and the feeling of peace that settles in Clark’s bones whenever he’s with her. He wants nothing more than to stay in the farm, wrapped around Lois and tracing the sharp edges of his name on her left shoulder while Ma’s in her room, sleeping soundly for the first time in a year.

“You never answered my question,” Clark murmurs.

“What question?” Lois asks. Her eyes are closed, her heartbeat steady. If she hadn’t said anything, Clark would’ve thought she was asleep. It seems like neither of them want to go to sleep, not when they could be here instead, tangled together, all too aware of each other.

“You’re wearing the ring. Is that a yes?” Clark asks, taking her hand in his. The ring is cold to the touch. Lois ducks even closer to him until Clark’s chin rests on the top of her head.

“Yes, it is. Of course I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Clark,” Lois says. Clark knows her enough to realize that her voice is shaky, like all those times she comforted him whenever he came home with his head full of the screams and cries of people he was too late to save. He wonders why she’s trying to comfort him even now.

“But?” Clark says, because there must be a  _ but _ .

“But I don’t want us to rush,” Lois says, and Clark can hear the familiar lilt of determination in her voice. She pulls away slightly, reaches out with her other hand to trace the line of Clark’s jaw with her fingertips. She looks him straight in the eyes, like she always does when she wants to get a point across. “I’m not losing you again, Clark. We’re not going to exchange vows at the city hall with nobody but Martha and Dusty as our witnesses just because I’m still scared right now.”

Clark closes his eyes for a moment, bites the inside of his cheek even as he smiles because it’s just like Lois to stubbornly, meticulously plan their wedding just to spite death. He doesn’t let himself get distracted.  _ Scared,  _ she said. Lois Lane doesn’t scare easily, and yet because of Clark, she is.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and it’s not just because it’s what Lois wants to hear, but it’s what he intends.

Lois lets out a breath, presses their foreheads together.

“I love you,” she says, and  _ oh _ . Clark missed that too.

Selfishly, Clark gives in to what he wants, decides it’s alright to keep her to himself for just a little bit more, even though he already held her within a circle of his making when he died. She’ll leave when she’s ready; she’s always been able to pick herself up no matter the situation. When that time comes, he’ll have to face the world outside Lois and Ma, but until then, he’ll bathe himself in their comfort, let them bring pieces of him back from the hole in the ground that housed him for all those months.

“I love you too, Lois.”

  
  
  
  


Lois leaves on a Sunday with promises to call Clark when she gets back to their Metropolis apartment. Clark’s left with an empty space beside him and an ache in his chest. They’ll see each other again, but first he has to find his place in the world again. With his death and Superman’s poorly hidden return, it can’t be by Lois’ side at the Daily Planet.

So Clark suits up and does his best to help. This, at least, hasn’t changed. People still look up at him, their eyes shining with hope, and they still cling to his cape, knuckles pale. He knows it’s a bad thing, that nothing seems to have improved while he was gone, that he still has to save people from muggings and dart his way through war zones. Still, some part of him can’t help but be relieved that he still has something to do—something to be.

There’s one thing that’s changed though, and it’s that Clark isn’t alone anymore. He doesn’t have to worry about the entire world anymore, because he hears Diana talking her way through a hostage situation and Bruce breathing heavily as he trudges into his manor with something heavy over his shoulder, and Clark remembers that he has other people to rely on now.

When he strains to hear anyone who needs his help, he finds himself in a rare moment of peace. There’s nothing going on that can’t be handled without him, and even Clark gets tired of flying around too. So instead, he perches himself on the roof of the Daily Planet and finds himself seeking something familiar.

Lois is on the other side of the city, sneaking around the port. She doesn’t need his help, but he’ll keep an ear out for her, just in case. Ma’s fallen asleep in front of the television, Dusty curled in her lap, so Clark will probably have to stop by and wake her up if she doesn’t in time for dinner. Bruce is still in his manor, working quietly alongside Alfred. The last time they saw each other, Clark made a promise to repay Bruce, and he intends to make good on that promise. It probably won’t be with money, because Bruce can easily come up with excuses to refuse that, what with his multibillion-dollar company and his sizeable inheritance. What Clark can do is worm his way into Bruce’s life, be the friend that he could have been if he hadn’t died until Bruce realizes that Clark needs a friend and a confidant first before he needs some kind of benefactor.

From what he’d researched after Lex Luthor’s party all those months ago, he knows that Bruce Wayne’s parents died when he was nine, that he was raised by Alfred, and that while Clark was on the verge of self-discovery, Bruce had to mourn for one of his sons. Of course, Bruce Wayne by no means seems like he would be a man lacking in company, but his first son is off working in another city and the only family he has left by his side is Alfred. Bruce has just one person who really, truly knows all the facets of his life carefully held together by the catches of his Batsuit and the buttons of his thousand-dollar suits, and it makes something turn over in Clark’s chest. Bruce Wayne may go above and beyond the usual human capabilities, but he is still human. He must get lonely too, and that’s something Clark’s intimately familiar with, something he would never wish on anyone.

Now, Bruce has the team, and he has Clark too, whether he likes it or not. They may not know him well, but they will with effort and in time. Clark made a promise to repay Bruce for everything he’s given Clark, and the first step in making good of that promise could be to start helping with building the team’s headquarters.

  
  
  
  


It’s just him, Bruce, and Alfred most of the time. Clark doesn’t have much experience with renovations or interior design besides decorating the barn loft his parents allowed him to spend his days in when he was a teenager and privacy was suddenly the most important thing in the world, so for the most part, Alfred and Bruce lay out the plans and Clark just does what they ask him to do. They work for most of the day, only taking breaks when Bruce has a meeting or when Bruce has to go on patrol.

At first, when it is just the three of them, Clark feels like he’s intruding. Even when they’re all working in silence and even when Alfred clearly tries to include him in conversation in the rare case that there is, Clark still feels like he can’t find his place in their dynamic. They work so seamlessly already, just the two of them, that Clark feels like he’s ruining some sort of flow when he has to ask them if there’s anything else he can help with. He wonders if they have each other’s names, or if their relationship is just a product of living and working with each other for decades.

Clark has his Ma’s name on his scalp, hidden under his hair right next to Pa’s name. When he was a kid, his Ma would tuck him in at night, and every time, she’d kiss him right on the top of his head where her name is. She still does sometimes, when he comes to her feeling like he’s broken into a million pieces scattered all over the world. Having someone like Ma, knowing they’re meant to take care of each other for as long as they both live, makes Clark breathe a little easier, his days a little bit brighter. He knows that soulmates aren’t the be-all and end-all of relationships a person can have, and Clark has people like Pete, Perry, Jenny, and the team who he will always care about, but being soulmates is validation that Clark can’t help but long for. Clark hopes that Bruce, for all his brooding and his reluctance to open up and distribute the weight on his shoulders, has someone there for him the way Ma and Lois are there for Clark.

He sees it sometimes, when Bruce sits on the floor, head in between his knees and his hair sticking to his face, tired after hours of nonstop work. Always, Alfred brings him a glass of water and runs a hand through his hair until Bruce finally resurfaces. It’s there too, in the looks Bruce gives Alfred when he thinks no one can see—sad looks, the inside of his cheek bitten until it bleeds, like he’s asking himself why Alfred stays with him and can’t bring himself to actually say it out loud because he’s afraid of what the answer would be. That’s stupid though, because Clark doesn’t need to see much of them to know that the reason Alfred stays is that he loves Bruce.

Alfred loves Bruce, and he loves seeing Bruce surrounded by friends and family, people who care about him. It’s why Clark isn’t surprised when Alfred asks him to stay after a quiet day, when the look in Bruce’s eyes are a touch too dark, matching the bags under his eyes, when there are fresh crescents of blood on his palms, probably after a particularly bad dream that morning.

“I’m making roast chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner, if that’s to your liking,” Alfred says as he wipes his hands with his apron, stained with dirt and paint. Bruce is leaning against the door out of the manor, looking at them with a small smile that makes the shadows under his eyes seem a little less severe.

“Thank you, Alfred. I would like that,” Clark says.

He follows them to the lakehouse, where Alfred makes him take a shower in the guest bedroom. He dresses in Bruce’s clean clothes and drinks a mugful of hot cocoa in the kitchen while waiting for dinner. Bruce is sitting next to him, very much in the same situation except with a tablet in his hand, keeping busy reading news articles. Bruce lets him look over his shoulder, so Clark reads along and notices a pattern.

“Are you looking for more people like us?” Clark asks.

“What makes you think so?” Bruce counters. He stops scrolling, looks up from an article about a series of drug busts in Seattle, where the police would come in to see the dealers already tied up for them. The only reason it’s known to the public is because a reporter managed to get there before the police on the most recent case.

All Bruce has been reading about are anonymous tips, criminals suddenly giving themselves up to the police, and even reports of an invisible man. It isn’t hard to connect the dots, especially given what Bruce has already done in the past, putting the team together, and Clark says as much.

Bruce nods, smiles a little like he’s satisfied, and Clark wonders if this is the smile that his kids saw when they made a breakthrough in a case, or when they grasped something in training. It feels a little bit like the question was some kind of test, like Bruce wanted to see whether or not Clark still has the wits and instinct of a reporter. Maybe it’s just how Bruce engages with people, like a detective waiting for company, someone to match his wits and to solve the next mystery with him.

“We could always use more people on the team,” Bruce says.

Clark thinks of the last time they had to work as a team, of all the people they could have saved if there were more of them in more places. They did enough, but they could have done more, and that’s why they’re rebuilding the manor with more than six people in mind.

Clark loves this world, and he’s been given a second chance to protect it. There are probably so many people out there who can do good, or who already do more even though they don’t have to, and the team needs those people if they want to be better prepared for another full-scale invasion like what happened with Zod and Steppenwolf.

“Can I help?” Clark asks.

“You already do,” Bruce murmurs, and he looks away, but he doesn’t lean away from Clark or hide the tablet away, so Clark can’t decide if it’s a dismissal or something else entirely.

Clark feels—disconnected, like there was a string connecting them, taut until Bruce reached between them and cut it. He feels like he knows what this is about, because Bruce has taken his job as one of the leaders of the team seriously and it’s clear to Clark that he tends to take everything on himself, no matter how many people he has on his side, but those three words have a weight to them that feels like it’s something  _ more _ . It feels like it’s something that Bruce didn’t actually mean to say out loud and that makes something in Clark back down. Clark doesn’t truly understand what Bruce means, but asking would only touch on things Bruce doesn’t want to talk about.

Clark doesn’t want to ruin this moment, warm with the steam rising from their mugs and the heat radiating from the lights above the counter, so he leaves Bruce be. He lets Bruce have the last word, ducks his head and reads along as Bruce starts scrolling again.

He notices, later, that his breaths have lined up with Bruce’s. It’s not the first time Clark’s done it unconsciously, though it’s the first time with Bruce. Clark doesn’t think about it for too long.

  
  
  
  


Sometimes, someone else from the team comes to work with them.

Barry’s Barry, so he fills the silence with endless stories about his job and his hobbies and his life in general. Sometimes, he makes a joke that surprises a laugh out of Bruce, and Clark sees Barry turn away and smile, like making Bruce laugh is a game he’s won. He brings something out in Bruce that reminds Clark that Bruce is more than Batman or a Wayne, that Bruce has two sons that he misses. Bruce laughs, he leans into Barry’s fleeting side-hugs, and he actually listens to Barry because he wants to. He  _ cares _ about this kid. Clark wonders if Bruce was this bright when Dick and Jason were still in his life, and something in Clark—a selfish part of him—wants to see it more often.

Diana comes in like a hurricane, somehow getting promises out of both Clark and Bruce to take care of themselves and to meet up for coffee outside of work like friends do. Then she walks away to settle down with Alfred, chatting good-naturedly with him about art, literature, rumors and uncorroborated accounts about figures of history that seem so absurd to Clark that he wonders sometimes if Alfred and Diana are just making things up to entertain each other. Bruce makes the funniest faces when he eavesdrops right along with Clark, like he can’t believe some of what he’s hearing either. Clark supposes there must be at least one thing that Bruce isn’t an expert in, and there’s no one who knows history better than someone who’s actually lived it. Diana is a steady presence, solid and dependable, ever patient and relentless in her efforts to bring them out of their shells. She knows loneliness as they do, has had decades of experience with it, of learning how to cope and learning to stand back up.  Somehow, just knowing that is a comfort.

Arthur takes up the whole room. His laugh is loud and hearty in a way that makes Clark want to laugh along, no matter how stupid and corny the jokes that precede them are. He reminds Clark of Pa, of Pa’s friends who laugh and drink on the weekends but come home to kiss their children goodnight. Arthur likes to tease and drink all manners of beer, and he loves to rile Bruce up. On the other hand, he’s loyal and he’s good and he  _ cares _ . Clark knows he’s balancing the team and Atlantis, trying to keep the two halves of his self contained, knit together. Clark also knows that it’s hard, trying to do that without everything falling apart. Arthur manages it with a smile though, and Clark admires him for it. It’s a small thing to let Arthur get away with his teasing and his harmless jokes, because for him, the team is  _ safe _ . It’s the same way for most of them, because they all understand each other to some extent, brought together by their abilities and their otherness.

Victor is quiet, until he isn’t, and then he and Bruce have made soundboards out of each other for their endless ideas. Victor tells them everything he wants to do and make and improve. He talks about the future of the team like it’s concrete, and it gives Clark hope that maybe they’re not just fumbling their way around with only vague notions of their long-term goals and half-baked plans for it. Victor grows into himself under Diana’s wing, but he also thrives under Bruce and Alfred’s. Victor just  _ fits _ with everyone on the team, even when he’s not actively trying to. It makes Clark wonder, at times, if it’s enough to remind Victor that he’s human, that he didn’t die in that explosion. Clark hopes that it is, but he knows how hard it can be, knows from experience that there are times that even the team can’t help with the feeling of isolation.

Clark still feels like he’s buried underground sometimes, like he’s stuck, held in place and forced to watch everyone else live on as he slowly turns to dust. He’s had to set an alarm every hour because too often has he found himself losing track of time while flying or sitting on rooftops, just watching the colors of the sky change, listening to the world around him, but not really doing anything himself.

Clark figured out early on that the best way to deal with it is to surround himself with familiar things. It’s not just because he misses Ma that he makes so many trips back to Kansas in the middle of the day. When he’s at the farm, lying on his bed, he listens to Ma go through the motions of her day, leaves rustling in the wind outside, and he lets all these sounds wash over him. It makes him feel like he’s back in high school, lazing around on a weekend, waiting for a text from Pete about meeting up and getting milkshakes with Lana. It’s the closest Clark comes to feeling alive again, the closest he comes to seeing himself.

Sometimes, it starts even when he’s with the entire team, especially when they pair off after meetings, starting their own conversations as they catch up. Clark tries so hard not to, but he starts to feel detached, like he’s just looking in from the outside, a ghost trying to communicate. He gets along fine with everyone, sure, but sometimes it’s hard to put a smile on his face to greet them, or to respond to a hug, or find the right words. It makes him feel like he’s not right for being unable fit in with people who are like him.

There are small mercies, though, because he finds he’s always happy enough working with Bruce and Alfred in silence. After spending so many days with them, Clark slowly settles. Alfred hands him a tool he needs, and Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder as he points something out to Clark, and Clark never needs to say anything to know he’s alive. Maybe it’s because they’ve had experience integrating someone into their dynamic because of the two children they’ve already welcomed into their secretive lives, but they manage to make Clark feel better without him having to ask for it.

So it’s not a surprise when Clark listens to the chaos of having the entire team working together in the manor, finds himself drowning, and having none other than Bruce to come and pull him back to shore. Arthur and Diana are off to one side, arguing about their choice of weapons as they paint the walls. Barry, Victor, and Alfred are rechecking the room measurements so they can finalize the list of furniture to order. Barry’s trying to convince Victor to come to a concert with him, so it’s really Alfred who’s doing most of the work. Bruce is with Clark, painting another side of the room, and Clark is fine until he isn’t.

Clark—needs to breathe. He needs to put down the roller he’s holding before he makes a mess. He needs to move, and the simplest way to start is to  _ breathe _ . He’s dealt with worse before. He’s in a big room with high ceilings, surrounded by people he can trust. There’s nothing to worry about. He can breathe if he wants to.

There’s a hand on his bicep, steadying him. It’s Bruce.

“Clark? Do you need to step out?” he asks. His heartbeat is quick but his tone is soft and calm, his breaths—in, out, in, out.

“Clark,” Bruce repeats. His hand is on Clark’s nape now, thumb stroking his skin—up, down, up, down—in time with his breaths. He must be doing it on purpose, the same way he means to keep his voice down and to duck into Clark’s space so that he’s almost whispering in Clark’s ear. Bruce’s voice is an island in the middle of nowhere, giving Clark a reason to kick his legs in the water and  _ swim _ . Bruce’s touch is the first handful of sand that Clark clings to when he gets to land.

“I’m fine,” Clark says, and he is, now. He grasps Bruce by the elbow, keeps Bruce’s hand held where it is. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” Bruce says. He keeps up the rhythm, and Clark clings to him still. He wonders if Bruce has always known this about Clark, that he’s prone to breaking down at the smallest of things—even at nothing. He wonders how many more times this will happen, how many times until Bruce realizes Clark didn’t come back  _ right _ . Maybe he already knows, but stays because he feels like he owes Clark something, but Clark doesn’t like to think about that possibility. Bruce is perceptive though; even if he doesn’t know like Clark hopes, it won’t take long for him to see.

“Sorry,” Clark repeats, because it’s all he can say without having to lie. He doesn’t thank Bruce either, because thanking him means an end to  _ this _ , and Clark finds that he doesn’t want to let go yet.

Bruce purses his lips, but he doesn’t say anything more about it. He just continues what he’s been doing, pulling pieces of Clark back together. It feels like he has more control of Clark’s body than Clark himself, breathing air into his lungs, over and over until Clark can manage on his own. The list of things Bruce has done for him grows longer and longer, while Clark feels like he’s done nothing but the bare minimum to assuage Bruce’s guilt. It’s misplaced guilt, yes, but it’s still there, even though Bruce has been told so many times that he isn’t at fault.

“I think I need some water,” Clark says. He doesn’t pull away though; he doesn’t want to let go until he needs to.

He wonders how they reached this point, from beating each other down on the edge of Gotham, to —whatever this is. Bonded by unhealthy notions of owing each other and knowing each other too well despite never really talking about themselves. He doesn’t hate it though, wants to stay in this bubble for as long as he can.

Bruce doesn’t let go either. His hand goes from Clark’s nape to Clark’s shoulder, down his arm. He takes the roller from Clark’s hand and sets it down.

“I’ll come with you,” Bruce says. When he finally pulls away, it feels like he’s giving Clark a choice to make.

Clark is hyper-aware of Bruce, how he holds himself so calmly, breathing even and hands kept at his sides, relaxed. If Clark were to reach out, he could easily touch him. Maybe that’s the point, and so that’s what he does.

Clark holds Bruce by his elbow, and pulls him along.

  
  
  
  


They work and work until finally, they finish building the team’s headquarters over the charred remains of Bruce’s past. Suddenly, Clark doesn’t have something concrete to fill his days anymore. There’s nothing left for the team to do except plan and wait and look for others like them, which is just as well considering that the world would need to be under threat of ending for all of them to reunite in battle. So Clark goes back to flying and helping, saving people all day. He’s doing good; he’s doing what he can to help people. Still, he can’t help but feel like there’s a void in him, a gaping hole that spreads a phantom itch in his arms and in his hands that makes him want to reach for  _ something _ . He doesn’t know what exactly, until he does.

It takes seeing Lois in action to make him admit to himself what’s wrong. He misses the quiet satisfaction of a well-written, thoroughly researched story, the rush of sneaking around when he’s out in his Clark Kent button-up and specs, doing research for a piece. He misses actually talking to other people, hearing their stories instead of just their terrified cries.

He hears Lois’ heartbeat speed up when he’s in the middle of stopping a bank robbery. He’s always been attuned to her heartbeat ever since that first night she sneaked into the Kryptonian ship and got herself injured for a shot, so he knows she tries to keep herself calm when she’s working. She needs her hands steady if she’s going to takes pictures, after all, and her mind alert if she wants to remember all the little details that might be important to her story. Clark knows to only go and help when she’s nervous, when she’s realized she can’t get out of a situation without putting herself in danger or compromising the story.

So Clark makes quick work of the robbery, resolves to check on the bank’s employees later, and flies to her. She’s in an abandoned building in one of the poorer parts of Metropolis, stuck in a room with three children whose captors are back sooner than she expected. Clark blasts through the wall separating Lois from him and get the children out first because they’re the ones who wouldn’t be able to protect themselves and they’re the ones that Lois is trying to save.

“Everything’s going to be fine now,” Clark tells them, looking each of them in the eyes and letting his lips curve up into a reassuring smile. “You’ve all been very brave, but let me take care of the rest, okay?”

They all cling to each other with the same look in their eyes—terrified and amazed and relieved all at once, but still unyielding in the midst of it all. There is alarming strength in kids, Clark finds. No matter if he finds them in the middle of a war zone or a kidnapping or whatever crime kids shouldn’t have to witness or be subjected to, they always come out of it with their grips tight on his cape and their faces set with determination to go back to their families intact.

So it’s no surprise to Clark when they nod at him, even though it lights a fire in Clark’s gut, makes him think that maybe he should just get Lois out of there and bring the entire building down on the people who took these children from where they belong. He knows it’s wrong and he won’t end up doing it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to see them suffer. He will but he has to do it the proper way. Anyway, if Lois has anything to do with it, they’ll be behind bars soon enough. It has to be enough for Clark.

When he goes back for Lois, it’s just in time to see five men rushing into the room, guns blazing, the door banging against the wall in their haste. Clark doesn’t hesitate to put himself in front of Lois, feels the bullets bounce off his chest and doesn’t think about what would’ve happened if he were even a moment too late. Instead, Clark does what he’s supposed to and stops them before they can come up with a plan other than just  _ guns _ . He’s been in enough of these situations that there’s a list of boxes to tick in his head. Be aware of all weapons they have, be aware of their positions at all times, make sure the people he has to protect are safe, end things quickly so he can give them peace of mind and let their hearts rest.

So he does, and so he ticks each of those boxes one by one. Finally, when the police have arrived with their handcuffs and the backs of their cars ready with blankets to keep the kids warm on their way home, Clark is left with Lois.

“They’re part of a new organization. They’re smaller fish, but the police might get something out of them,” Lois tells him. He doesn’t even have to ask. “Kidnapping. I suspect human trafficking as well, but I don’t have anything concrete to prove it.”

Clark’s lips press into a grim line. He feels anger surge in him again, but he clenches his jaw and tamps it down.

“You’ll update me?” Clark asks Lois instead, because he intends to see this through. He knows she and the police will be able to handle it from here, but he wants to know that there’s one less thing to worry about in the world. Kids may be survivors when faced with adversity, but they shouldn’t have to be in a bad situation in the first place.

“Of course I will,” Lois promises, and how could Clark have forgotten? How could he have thought that the only thing he could do now as Superman was to face trouble as it came?

He became an investigative reporter so he could be first at the scene, so he could stop criminal organizations at their root, take them down in one fell swoop with a USB full of their dirt. The Daily Planet isn’t the only place he can be a reporter, even though Clark will always feel attached to it, tethered to people like Lois and Jenny who are driven by the same ideals and morals as Clark, people like Perry who despite all stern words against a farmboy’s propensity to bite off more than he can chew, holds up the Planet’s mission and vision when it counts.

Clark can still be an investigative reporter; he just won’t be able to do it under his name anymore. Now, he just has to find a story to write.

  
  
  
  


It feels like an eternity before Clark sees the team again. It’s only actually been a week, but time is something precious and Clark tries to stretch out every second that he can when he’s out there, cape flapping in the wind while people’s lives are in his hands. His week is a blur of hope-filled faces and outstretched hands, and by the end of it Clark is  _ tired _ . He’s happy that he’s able to help but seeing hope also means seeing the cruelty of humanity, because they’re two sides of the same coin no matter how Clark hates it.

Clark had the privilege of growing up with his parents who loved him, nurtured him, protected him. They’re the ones who worried about him, who told him that there can be darkness in humanity, but despite that, Clark has always held hope that there is more light than dark. Even in his travels, he met more good people than bad. Both Bruce and Diana are more aware of it, or perhaps the better way to put it is that they’ve just been exposed to cruelty more.

Bruce delved deep into the dark of his own volition just to understand how people tick, how they’ve allowed the dark to hold them by their necks and put a gun into their hands. Bruce has seen the worst of it, has been broken by it, and yet he still stands today.

Diana lived through three wars started by humans, and while she’s seen humanity’s eagerness to go back to peace, she’s also seen their apparent inability to stay at peace. Even after all that, she remains by their side, stands firm with her intent to protect them, even though she did come close to losing her way.

Clark wonders if Diana as she is now is how he will be in the future, generations from now, seeing as he has been gifted by this Earth’s yellow sun with an all but immortal body. It’s a curse, truly, and Clark knows that. He may not have seen as much as Diana yet, or experienced as much as she has, but he sees the wistful look in her eyes sometimes when she looks up at the sky, fingers tracing the inside of her left bicep, and he knows that she has someone long gone who she loved and will always love. Clark knows that someday he’ll be looking up at the sky and thinking of Lois, seeing her face in the stars and feeling her warmth in the way the sun kisses his skin. Even then, Clark hopes he will still be protecting humanity. Whether it’s from themselves or from outside forces, he hopes that he will never waver. This is his planet, has been ever since Martha and Jonathan Kent picked up a baby and decided he was theirs.

That’s what this team means to Clark. This team will not die with the six of them. It will live on with the people they will find from here on out, the people who they will eventually train and trust and consider their friends. It will live on with Diana as a guiding hand, ready to lead them, and Clark hopes he can grow to be someone who will stay by her side, a pillar on which she can build them up further.

So when Bruce says that a new meta in Seattle has come out in the open in an eye-catching red suit, calling himself Shazam, Clark feels excitement spark in his chest. That’s one more person—one more who’s trying to do the same thing they are.

“Is that a lightning bolt on his suit? Very Harry Potter,” Barry remarks, which makes Victor roll his eyes and Arthur’s eyebrows to furrow because he’s a stereotypical old man who is out of touch when it comes to pop culture.

Bruce replays the clip from twitter, and once again they see Shazam save a bus full of children he jokes around with after. Just for that, for trying to help the kids distract themselves from what could have happened, Clark trusts him.

“He seems like he’ll fit right in,” Diana says, eyebrows raised. She sounds resigned, just like she does when Barry starts zooming around the place and talking their ears off, or when Arthur makes a pun that even Clark can’t appreciate. She’s definitely the most mature out of all of them, probably just because no one else is willing to take up the responsibility, and Shazam doesn’t seem like he’s going to change that.

“He doesn’t seem like a threat, but we can monitor him through the news and social media before approaching him, seeing as he’s not doing anything to hide himself,” Bruce says, concluding his report.

“I can go,” Clark finds himself saying. It’s a product of impulse, but he tastes the tail-end of the idea on his tongue and finds that he doesn’t mind it. “Metropolis has been quiet lately, and anyway, I was thinking maybe I could piece together an article about him while I’m there.”

Bruce looks at him, considering, and if he’s surprised, it doesn’t show.

“If you’re sure,” he says eventually. Then, his attention is back on his tablet, probably already speeding through a list of things Clark will need in his head.

“I’ll come with you,” Bruce continues. “I’ll send you the details later.”

A part of Clark, the part that’s worried Bruce is only offering because he’s worried about Clark doing something new, wants to say that he can handle himself, that Diana and Bruce both did recon and approached their current teammates alone. At the same time, he also wouldn’t mind the company, the sense of something familiar, but it’s a luxury with their meager number of six and with a whole city that Bruce has his hands in. Clark finds himself automatically turning to Diana, because her word holds just as much weight as Bruce does, and because she’s the one Clark can trust to know whether something is reasonable or not.

She smiles at him, placating, and Clark’s next breath comes a little easier.

“Two is better than one, after all,” she says, and that’s the end of it.

  
  
  
  


Three days later, Clark finds out what it means to live the life of a billionaire. He meets Bruce at the lake house, holding a carry-on stuffed with clothes both civilian and not, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. Alfred drives them to Bruce’s private hangar, which is surprisingly not as massive as it could be considering who owns it, and they take a quick jet ride to Seattle.

It shouldn’t be so different from flying the skies as Superman, and really, Clark’s faster than any plane a human being can come up with in the next few decades, but it still  _ feels  _ different. Maybe it’s the five-star service, the smell of well-maintained leather, the ready smiles as one of the crew asks him if he’s comfortable or if he wants anything to drink. Whatever it is, it overwhelms Clark. He always did feel out of his depth in the charity balls and fundraisers that Perry forced him into, with the stuffy suits he had to wear and the stuffier people he’s had the misfortune to talk to.

Of course, it gets worse—or better, depending on the perspective. After the private jet, Bruce leads him to a five-star hotel where they’re welcomed like they own it, a line of staff greeting them at the door. Maybe Bruce does own it, because there’s no one he could trust to house him more than his own people.

“We’ll have to be on standby starting tomorrow so get some rest tonight,” Bruce says once they’re left alone in the penthouse suite. Bruce shrugs off his coat and immediately puts down roots on the couch in the parlor, claiming the coffee table for himself. “I’ll set an alert for any mention of Shazam on the police radio. You’ll keep an ear out as well?”

“Sounds good,” Clark says. He leaves his bags by the door of the smaller bedroom and lets his feet take him to the balcony, separated from the suite by reinforced glass doors. The wind is biting when he steps outside, tasting of rain and earth. He closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself feel it. In the middle of this unfamiliar place in an unfamiliar city, he at least has the familiar feeling of the wind trying to force him off-balance and the knowledge that Bruce is just a few paces away, a rock Clark can rely on.

“I’m going to take a nap,” Clark decides, because he’s in an odd moment of peace, lulled into a feeling of safety, and he wants to take advantage of it. “Wake me up when it’s time for dinner?”

When he turns, he finds Bruce frozen on the couch, looking at him. His hair is in disarray, probably because of the wind, and for a moment, Clark feels sheepish that he didn’t think to close the glass doors while he was outside. He wasn’t really paying attention, distracted as he was by his thoughts.

“Sorry about that. I should have closed the door behind me,” Clark says. He doesn’t say anything like  _ you should have said the wind was too strong, Bruce,  _ because Bruce is prone to letting him do whatever he wants and it would be moot. It’s a complete reversal of Bruce and Clark before, when a single misstep of Clark’s would be amplified, blown up into another reason to mark him as a threat. It’s another way that Bruce is compensating, though Clark can’t really tell if it’s intentional, if Bruce is consciously holding himself back from anything that he thinks might offend Clark.

Clark crosses the room and reaches out, tries his best to flatten Bruce’s hair in apology, hopes they’ll settle someday from this tentative peace that stems from the miracle of Clark’s rebirth. Bruce startles, and immediately turns back to what he was working on.

“It’s fine,” Bruce says, and for a split second, Clark wonders if it really is. Maybe it’s because Clark can’t see the look in Bruce’s eyes, or maybe it’s because he was reminded of the  _ them  _ that was before, but now the wounds that were supposed to have closed when Clark died have reopened, and the peace Clark felt on that balcony has gone as quickly as it came.

Maybe it’s because here in this too large hotel suite, they’re disconnected from the rest of the world, without a buffer between them, and Clark doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s suddenly unsure of himself, and he doesn’t know if he should push, or if he should take Bruce’s word for it. He  _ wants  _ to believe that nothing is wrong, wants to hold onto this thing—this understanding—that they have, so Clark tries his best to shake it off, tries to file it away as an irrationality. He pulls his hand back slowly, threads of doubt trying to keep him from letting go.

“I’ll be here,” Bruce says, and it feels like another lie.

Clark makes himself walk away, every step fueled by the hope that he’ll wake up and all his worries will be washed away like a dream. But his stomach remains heavy and the relief of sleep is a long time coming.


	2. my heart can rest

Bruce knows that setting up their equipment in the parlor was the right choice. Bruce and Clark are partners in this. They’re supposed to work together on Clark’s first official mission as a member of the team, because Steppenwolf was a fluke he was only dragged into out of desperation. Whether it was the team’s desperation for something to shift the tides to their side, or Bruce’s desperation to bring back to life the man he killed, even if it wasn’t with his own hands, it doesn’t matter.

Still, it feels like a miscalculation, because something has been growing slowly and steadily in Bruce ever since he first realized that Clark was a better human being than anyone he’s ever met despite not being one. It’s planted itself in Bruce’s chest, controlling his heartbeat at the most inopportune times, bringing him closer and closer to a cliff more dangerous than anything he’s ever encountered. A fall from its height will be painful, even with the symbols on his chest he now knows form Clark’s name grounding him. At this point, with their friendship new and untested, the knowledge that Clark is his soulmate nothing but a delicate, needle-thin thread wrapped around his waist that will no doubt break if he makes the mistake of falling.

Yet Bruce is helpless. His eyes catch on Clark’s back, wide and shadowed as Clark faces the tiny sliver of the sun unhidden by clouds. Bruce can’t see Clark’s face from this angle, but he doesn’t need to look at his expression to know that he’s completely relaxed right now. His shoulders are free of the tension that’s been lingering from the jet until the moment they closed the door of the penthouse suite Bruce booked for them, and Bruce can easily imagine the small smile that he sees when Clark is on the phone with Martha, or when Clark is wrapped up in three blankets on his couch and listening to Alfred mouthing off at Bruce. Clark is in his element, looking so much like Superman while in Clark Kent’s clothes and it reminds Bruce once again that Clark is larger than life, that it’s not just Bruce who looks at him and  _ hopes _ , that there is so much to Clark other than the man who Bruce has gotten so used to spending time with lately. Bruce finds that he can’t seem to look away.

Maybe it’s just because it’s _Clark_ —Clark who was trampled on by the world, broken even after everyone has realized their mistake and left roses at his grave, finally aware of what they had after they lost him. Clark who is recovering, who has every right to his emotions, to tremble when he’s filled to the brim with them and threatening to spill. Clark who manages genuine warmth in his smiles, to put himself out in the middle of a storm he’s entirely capable of avoiding even though Bruce knows how easy it can be to just curl up into a ball and avoid the rest of the world.

As if to make it even harder for Bruce, Clark comes and runs his hand through Bruce’s hair, a soft smile on his face. It makes Bruce’s heart constrict in his chest, and Clark’s name is burning like a brand pressing onto his skin. Bruce looks away, because it’s the only thing he can do in the hopes of reshaping his heart into what it used to be.

But even when Clark is out of sight, the beats of his heart are off, disjointed.

  
  
  
  


Bruce takes the coward’s way out. He rushes through his dinner after room service arrives, knocks on Clark’s door before leaving his food in front of it, and proceeds to hide out in his own room. He keeps an eye on the police radio scanner readouts to distract himself, and soon enough the sun is rising and he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Alfred will kill him.

He thinks of Clark in the other room, thinks of the way Clark’s footsteps stopped in front of his door last night and the way Bruce had to fight to keep his breaths steady until Clark finally decided to leave Bruce alone. Bruce knows he’s reverting to unhealthy methods of coping again, knows that he should probably act like everything’s fine just like he said, because he has no reason to be avoiding Clark. It’s not Clark’s fault Bruce feels like his heart is going to explode when he looks at Clark, or when he remembers that Clark, who he mourned and loved along with the rest of the world is now someone who calls him a friend. Still, he feels like if he gets into another situation like before, distracted by Clark’s innate beauty and warmth, he’d fall right onto jagged rocks that will bloody him, keep his heart beating but his body in pain long enough for him to want to break even the big, bad Gotham Bat and make him beg for mercy. He’d rather remove the possibility entirely, distance himself until the boundaries are clear and he won’t look at Clark and think that he wants to hold him or kiss him or spend the rest of his life by his side. It’s better than Clark finding out that Bruce has overstepped, thought that Clark’s name on his chest and his on Clark’s nape means it’s okay for him to have feelings for Clark, the one person he doesn’t deserve in the least.

So Bruce continues avoiding Clark, leaves a note about staking out the city, and slips out of the suite at six in the morning. He’s dressed in slacks and a black coat, a navy blue beanie that Dick gave him many years ago keeping the wind out of his hair. He walks through the streets of Seattle, fully aware that Clark can find him just by stretching out his senses, but perhaps by surrounding himself with other people, becoming just another person in an orchestra of heartbeats, Bruce can make it a little harder for Clark.

He does as he promised in the note and takes stock of the city as he traverses it, comparing what he sees with what he remembers from the map Alfred compiled for him before he left. It works for a while, buys him almost two hours of peace, but then he has covered the immediate perimeter of their hotel and that’s one excuse gone to the wind.

But as anyone he’s interacted with both as Bruce Wayne and Batman would say, he is incredibly stubborn, and when his eyes catch on a diner across the street from him and next, the dark gray clouds looming over the city, he finds himself another excuse not to go back to the hotel just yet.

A bell rings when he enters the diner. There are only a handful of people inside—an elderly man seated at the counter watching the news on the television and nursing a mug of coffee, a kid in a red hoodie poring over the newspaper in a booth nearest to the restroom, and a couple sharing pancakes in another booth. Bruce claims the table nearest the exit, orders a salad he mostly pushes around the plate, and notes to himself to drop a big tip later because their unlimited coffee is actually  _ good _ . He might actually never leave. Clark can find Shazam himself and win him over with a smile. It wouldn’t be a hardship. Clark would have an easier time of it than Bruce, at least, considering how quickly the rest of the team took to him when Arthur and Bruce can barely hold a conversation without Bruce gritting his teeth, and how Bruce doesn’t really know how to handle either Barry or Victor, who are kids on the opposite sides of a spectrum on how kids act.

Bruce sighs. He’s not doing a very good job of not thinking about Clark, or even just not thinking that Clark is good and pleasant to be around and, in general, beautiful. As if to agree with him, the first few drops of rain patter against the window beside him before the dam breaks and rain falls heavily from the sky. The sound of the rain hitting the earth is like the bass of banging drums, loud and overwhelming.

Bruce thinks of Clark, probably awake by now, alone in a hotel suite that’s too big for one person alone. Bruce wonders if he’s ordered breakfast yet or if he’s being stupid and avoiding ordering any room service because he doesn’t want to add another thing to the bill. It frustrates Bruce sometimes, when Clark tries to tell him that he doesn’t need to do things for him or his family, because Bruce  _ does  _ need to, and more important perhaps is the fact that he  _ wants  _ to. He wants to help, to do everything he can to feel like he deserves Clark’s name over his heart.

And at that thought, Bruce startles because—well. What has he been doing since last night? He doesn’t have the right to run away. He can’t help Clark if he runs away. Now that he has Clark back, he should never let go, should never stray from Clark’s side, even if he’s just there as a friend, supporting Clark from the sidelines. All Bruce can do is endure.

Bruce picks himself up, blindly leaves a wad of cash on his table, and runs out the door. Then he freezes, staring at the rainwater sluicing off the curved roof, a veil separating him from the rest of the world. The bottom of his slacks getting soaked in the water that splashes against the ground and he feels the chill even through the fabric of his coat. He wants to run a hand through his hair and _pull_ because he just went and forgot that he doesn’t actually have an umbrella. He’s an idiot who let himself be distracted enough to forget an umbrella in _Seattle_ and he even had the audacity to loiter when he could have made it back to the hotel before it started raining.

The bell rings behind him, and then—

“Hey, Mister. You’re blocking the way.”

“Sorry,” Bruce murmurs, absent-mindedly stepping out of the way and letting the kid pass. He could probably take an Uber back to the hotel but the traffic in Seattle isn’t that great and Bruce isn’t exactly known for his patience. He debates walking back anyway; even though he’d have to cross three intersections at least, it’s his only choice. He’s faced things worse than rain, anyway.

He shrugs off his coat, maps out and discards routes in his mind until he arrives at the best one, and readies himself for the onslaught of rain.

“Do you  _ wanna  _ get sick, Mister?”

Bruce pauses, turns to see that the kid’s just standing there with his arms crossed over with his chest, an eyebrow raised at Bruce.

“Excuse me?” Bruce says, because that raised eyebrow is a little bit offending. It strikes Bruce, unbidden, that the first time he saw Jason, already halfway through getting the tires off the Batmobile, he was also wearing a hoodie in the same red that the kid is wearing. It makes Bruce’s knees weak, makes his vision blur. He feels like he could suffocate to his death on the lump that’s lodged itself into his throat.

The kid’s face scrunches into a frown. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce says, even though he’s wide-eyed and perplexed, caught unawares by this heavy feeling of grief and guilt and regret he mistakenly thought has gotten a little easier to carry over the years. The kid doesn’t even look like Jason that much. His hair is black, but it’s not a mess of curls like Jason’s, and the lines of his face are softer, rounded, though it’s by virtue of the shape of his face more than an indication of health. He’s thin—thinner than Alfred would be happy about anyway—in the way that poverty-stricken people are, the way that Bruce is all too familiar with after the first few weeks of trying to get some meat on Jason’s bones.

It’s all too much, too reminiscent of a past that is a wound deep in Bruce’s heart still unhealed.

“If you say so,” the kid says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. Bruce wonders how much of the pain in his chest is showing. Too much, most likely, judging by the look on the kid’s face. Bruce is having a hard time reeling himself in, but he tries. He  _ tries _ , and when he can breathe again, it’s a little less difficult to look at the kid who’s still looking at Bruce like he’s expecting something.

“So you wanna share my umbrella or what?” the kid says, and he has a hand on his hip and this look on his face like Bruce is the one who’s being difficult.

“You don’t even know where I’m going,” Bruce says.  _ You don’t even know who I am _ , he doesn’t say. There are limits to being nice and Bruce doesn’t even want to think about how long this kid has been going up to strangers and offering to help them, how many close calls there have been.

The kid glares at him for another moment before turning away, opening his umbrella. He looks at Bruce over his shoulder, says, “Die then.”

Bruce is startled into a laugh, remembers a time when he tried to avoid Dick’s hugs for too many times and it ended with Dick being extra aggressive in their next spar, taking him down and forcing him into a hug. He remembers Jason crawling into his bed at night, troubled by nightmares, always pretending the next morning that he didn’t tuck himself into Bruce’s side and end up hogging the blanket.

Bruce watches the kid’s retreating back and thinks  _ maybe _ . Maybe he can help this kid out and this time, Bruce won’t have to see him ruined. So Bruce jogs to catch up with him, taking the umbrella so the kid won’t have to be on his tiptoes the whole time trying to get it over Bruce’s head.

“I’m Bruce,” he says.

The kid peers up at him, eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled in consideration. “Are you on TV or something?”

“Nothing that you should be watching,” Bruce says. Even though it’s more of something Bruce Wayne would say, it’s also true. Bruce doesn’t really feature in a lot besides news about the scandals that he lets the media catch wind of every once in a while to keep the Wayne name in the public’s eye.

“I’m Billy,” the kid says, and somehow, it brings a ridiculous sense of relief to Bruce that his name isn’t anything close to  _ Jason _ .

It makes things easier for Bruce though, and for the rest of the way to the hotel, Bruce finds that he can look at Billy and think of something other than a boy in his arms, beaten and bloody.

  
  
  


Bruce manages to get himself together and goes back to a semblance of normalcy around Clark. He tries to, at least, and mostly succeeds. He catches himself slipping up sometimes, giving into the warring instincts in his gut, wanting to get close but also wanting to spare Clark from having to deal with it if he figures how Bruce feels. It’s frustrating, not knowing what the right thing to do is. When Clark touches him, he leans into the touch, freezes up, and forces himself to relax, all in quick succession. Clark’s not so oblivious either; he’s noticed how Bruce is acting, but he takes Bruce’s word for it when he asks. Bruce knows he can’t keep this up and not have Clark figure him out in the long run, so he  _ tries _ and he hopes that with every time he’s close to Clark it’ll be a little bit easier to bear. He’ll have to work with Clark, will have to see him every week, go on missions with him and save the world while high on adrenaline that will no doubt make the thought of holding himself back even more impossible.

But Bruce tries, manages to make it through the two long days that pass before Shazam finally, finally surfaces. There’s a hostage situation in a museum where some high schoolers are having their field trip, with demands for money in exchange for the hostages’ lives. Shazam is right in the middle of it, caught between a rock and a hard place when one of the men puts a knife to a hostage’s throat after Shazam tries to take them down. It’s a delicate situation, with reports of five or more perpetrators involved, and it’s perhaps for the best that Bruce and Clark are here to help Shazam out. He’s new to this, and it’s obvious with the way he hesitates when he speaks to the hostage takers, with how his bravery is so clearly a facade even through the blurry video from the CCTV that Bruce hacks into. Shazam is trying though, and hopefully, after today, he’ll have Bruce and Clark and the rest of the team behind him, helping him along.

It’s Clark who goes, because he’s better suited for fighting in the light of day than Bruce is, and better suited to attracting people to their cause, proven by the fact that the team was built on the foundations Superman laid out with his life. Bruce gives Clark an earpiece so he can listen in, and Clark, dressed in his blues and his cape, rushes to Shazam’s side to help.

With Bruce’s voice in Clark’s ear, helping him sneak into the museum, Clark’s speed, and Shazam’s good sense to pull the hostage to safety when Superman walks in and puts the criminals in a frenzy, the situation is resolved without any casualties other than a couple of bruises on some of the students from rough handling.

“Shazam, right?” Clark says after, offering Shazam a small smile.

“You know who I am?” Shazam says, and his voice goes up almost to a squeak in his excitement. The hesitation in his voice from a few minutes ago is gone, overshadowed by Clark’s brightness.

“I’ve seen you on the news. You’ve been doing good for Seattle,” Clark says. “Ah, but I actually wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Shazam asks. He sounds a bit like a puppy whining after being told that they’re a bad dog, and it would be odd to hear from someone of his height and build, if Bruce hasn’t already seen Clark doing the same thing.

“Not at all,” Clark reassures, and immediately, Shazam smiles back at him. It’s easy work from then to get Shazam to follow Clark to the penthouse, quickly enough that they aren’t followed.

Shazam—well, Bruce already marked him as an ally, but Clark’s conversation with him was telling, if short. He wears his heart on his sleeve, obviously eager to please, probaby prone to doing everything he can to do the right thing. He reminds Bruce of Barry and his unending energy, of Dick’s first year under Bruce’s wing, of Jason at his best. Of course, he’s not going to let Shazam roam free without surveillance and regular check-ins for another three months at least, but other than that, Bruce feels like he’ll fit right in.

The glass doors to the balcony open, and in comes Clark, followed by Shazam, whose face is a mix of bemusement and excitement. But, curiously, it all morphs into panic at the sight of Bruce, which would make sense if he’s dressed as Batman, but this is just Shazam reacting to  _ Bruce _ .

“What are you doing here?” Shazam asks, and if he weren’t as frozen in terror as he is, he’d probably have bolted by now.

And Bruce—Bruce doesn’t know why his reaction is so severe when he has no recollection of ever meeting Shazam. Assuming he really is from Seattle leaves Bruce with a small pool of people, and yet none of them really fit the description of Shazam. Though, physical appearance can be changed easily as long as one has the money or the connections for it, which leaves Bruce back to square one.

“You know each other?” Clark asks, raising an eyebrow at Bruce, but before Bruce can say no, Shazam takes three steps closer to Bruce, his terror shifting to curiosity.

“How did you find out who I am?” he asks. 

“I don’t know who you are,” Bruce says, because it’s the truth and there really isn’t a point in lying, especially to someone who could potentially be part of the team.

At that, Shazam blanches. He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs, but then he’s smiling, sheepish, saying, “I messed up, huh?”

In the blink of an eye and a flash of lightning, Shazam is gone, replaced by a familiar kid in a familiar red hoodie.

Jesus. Bruce just can’t catch a break, can he? It feels like some sort of cosmic joke that the kid he met by chance just days ago, the kid who looks like he’s had a bad lot in life, who he’s been thinking about helping out discreetly, just happens to be the costumed hero they were looking for. He hasn’t even adopted the kid, has no plans other than finding him a scholarship or a part-time job, but already Billy’s in deep, flying into the face of danger regularly. He doesn’t even need to be  _ Robin _ . God. Maybe it’s just Bruce. Something’s just—wrong with him and that’s why every time he tries to be kind, it turns out bad for the poor kid he thought he could help.

Clark comes to stand beside him, and Bruce realizes suddenly that he’s tired. Even though he knows that later, he’ll have to think about training Billy, making sure he can compensate for his age with experience, right now, Bruce is just  _ tired _ .

“Explain,” Bruce demands, because he’ll need to know as much as he can to better prepare Billy for the life he’s leading.

Clark’s steadying hand at his shoulder is welcome, and it reminds Bruce that Billy needs him to be firm, to be a pillar, even though in the back of his mind, Bruce is still terrified. He’s terrified that this is going to end in a familiar spiral of grief and loss. He’s terrified that he’s fated to make the wrong choices his entire life. He’s terrified that this is turning out to be another instance where he can’t help but rely on Clark, terrified that he will continue to gravitate even closer and closer to Clark until Clark is the sun Bruce revolves around. Bruce knows that there’s too much pain to be had in this path, but it’s not entirely a bad thing, and maybe it’ll be less painful with Clark beside him. There’s no better person Bruce could choose to be with, to take comfort in.

That Clark knows him well enough to give him support without a word from Bruce—it’s good. It’s grounding. It’s enough to distract Bruce from the wound reopened in his chest by this boy in a red hoodie who makes Bruce feel like he’s reliving a dream, warm until it turns into a nightmare.

  
  
  
  


Coming back to Gotham is a relief. Seattle was—a lot. Bruce isn’t proud of it, but he spends the days before the next team meeting in a bubble of his own making. Gotham welcomes him, as a mother would her errant son, with a slap on the back of his hand and chains tighter than before, and he gladly lets her. At night, he goes out, reminds the people of Gotham that the Bat is always watching from the shadows. In the light of day, he hides, sleeps when he isn’t revising a file on Billy Batson or working on another project.

Bruce doesn’t think about Jason or Dick or Clark except when he loses focus and forgets that there’s a part of himself with its claws deep in his heart that he’s trying to compress into something more manageable. By some miracle, no one tries to contact him in those three days besides Barry, who sends him a selfie in court for the first case he’s been asked to testify as a forensics expert. It’s safely saved in Bruce’s phone, and he couldn’t let it pass without telling Barry that he can’t take selfies in a courtroom, it’s just bad form. He follows it up with a text congratulating Barry and telling him that he did a good job, because the criminal is convicted and it’s another milestone for Barry, finally coming into his own now that he has the opportunity.

But that’s it. Somehow, the world doesn’t work against him and purposely have him suffer. He makes himself suffer enough, working until he passes out just so he can avoid those long, long minutes lying in bed, his mind inevitably straying to places he isn’t ready to face yet. Alfred doesn’t appreciate it, but there aren’t really any pressing cases that have to be dealt with and he’s familiar enough with Bruce’s coping mechanisms to know to stop the flow of coffee when Bruce has been awake for too long.

Of course, soon enough, Bruce has to face reality. He hauls himself up from his desk chair and, at Alfred’s behest, shaves off his days-old scruff, covers up the bags under his eyes with more layers of concealer than he’d like, and gets dressed in the outfit he finds laid out on his bed. He’s always been able to clean up well, no matter what slump he’s been in or what hell he’s been through.

He steels himself, pulls together all his frayed ends, wills them to stay in place for the next few hours just so he wouldn’t have to deal with worried glances and reassurances. Then, finally, he goes and braves the short walk to the manor. He faces the team.

Seeing Barry, Victor, and Diana, hearing about what’s happened to them the past week—it makes him feel a little better. Even Arthur, who greets him with a shark-like grin, is a comfort, because at least Bruce knows where he stands with Arthur, and he’s content with it.

Seeing Billy again is—fine. Bruce has had more time to think about it, and he knows Billy is not Jason, knows that Billy has his own family who cares about him, a group of friends who will support him no matter what. He has no need for Bruce except as a mentor, and that makes it easier. It still tugs on old wounds to see Billy’s enthusiasm, to see him so carefree and get the feeling that there’s a clock ticking down to zero hanging on his neck, but Bruce thinks he can cope.

Clark is harder. Bruce manages to breathe, hopes he doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary, even as the possibility weighs on him. He greets Clark, a minute incline of his head in contrast to the warm smile that is appropriate as a response to an equally warm Clark, and Bruce hastily starts the meeting after that.

By the end of the meeting, they’ve covered all the regular updates per member, as well as the reports Bruce and Clark wrote on their trip to Seattle.

“Starting next week, you’ll come here for the Saturday team meeting, and then we’ll have your training until Sunday,” Bruce says.

“Sounds good,” Billy says. He’s slouching, shoulders hunched forward and cheek held up by his hand. He started the meeting with his back ramrod-straight and his hands clenched in his lap, but he loosened up soon enough, eventually getting bored by the numbers and the details that even Diana hates listening to.

“I want to help! I can help, right?” Barry says, grin wide and eyes bright. Bruce smiles despite himself, charmed even though he knows that Barry will end up distracting Billy more than helping.

“Only on Saturdays. You have a job, Barry; you have to rest,” Bruce says. He’s fully aware that he’s being a hypocrite, but no one is going to contradict him. A tired Barry is an inconsolable Barry, sad and prone to hugging and bundling up in jackets and blankets, who passes out where he’s standing after eating his weight in pizza. He’s still endearing but they all much prefer Barry when he’s smiling and talking a mile a minute.

“I have school, you know,” Billy says, and Bruce very nearly rolls his eyes. He has a reputation to maintain, though, so he settles for raising an eyebrow at Billy.

“You don’t have any extracurriculars and college applications aren’t until next year, so you have time,” Bruce says, because he’s known this even before he found out that Billy and Shazam are one and the same.

Billy grumbles, but it’s half-hearted. Bruce remembers Jason, arguing for the sake of argument when he’s feeling petty or bored, and it hurts, but not as much as it did when Bruce first saw Billy.

“I’d like to help too,” Clark says, and that’s fine. Bruce has prepared himself for this. Clark is too good, too willing to help, too quick to make friends and become invested in them. Billy is no help either, immediately perking up at the prospect of spending time with Clark, having  _ Superman  _ help with his training. Bruce won’t be able to pry him off Clark.

Bruce has prepared himself for this, and yet he chokes on the words. He has to fake a cough, has to turn away. He pulls himself together—quickly, because there’s concern growing in Diana’s eyes from the sliver it was before they started the meeting—and resigned, he says, “Everyone in the team is welcome to help.”

He doesn’t look back at Clark to see if his slips have been noticed, if he’s fucked it up already, given Clark reason to doubt he’s anything but okay. He doesn’t want to see what kind of expression he’d have if he did notice, doesn’t want to see Clark hurt because Bruce can’t control his own emotions.

Bruce knows himself. He’s no martyr; as much as he wants to grin and bear it, he’s always been one to feel deeply, and to let his feelings fester. He may be stubborn, but if he spends too much time doing this, his frustration will build until he breaks, and he has no doubt it will be explosive. There’s nothing left to do but wait, and try to minimize the damage done when it becomes too much.

He escapes quickly after that. He doesn’t leave anyone room to talk to him, or chase after him, or ask him how he’s doing. He doesn’t know what he might do, what he might blurt out. He feels like he’s falling apart, breaking into pieces that don’t seem to fit when he tries to put himself back together.

He doesn’t know where to go from here, or what to do to get himself back on track.

  
  
  
  


Bruce broods. He’s not proud of it, feels like he did as a child whenever he got angry over something stupid and walked out of dinner, his food unfinished. He second-guesses himself every time he thinks of Clark, so he tries not to, but that’s just another familiar coping mechanism of his that he recognizes and it only makes him brood more.

He’s regressing to the old habits he swore to break when he finally decided he wanted to be a better man again, after watching people close to him leave one by one and realizing there must be something he needs to change. Bruce knows that he’s regressing and yet he continues to brood. Maybe he’ll still be brooding by the time he has to spend time with Clark again, and then Clark will finally realize how ugly, how repulsive Bruce really is when you strip him down and see inside of him. He has done good things, but he’s not a good person.

He feels like a fraud sometimes, working alongside Clark when he’s nothing close to being worthy of it. But maybe that’s why Clark is his soulmate, because he has the darkness to even out Clark’s light. Bruce can believe it, and it’s definitely more possible than them being soulmates because Bruce is anywhere near Clark’s league, or because Bruce could ever hope to be as good as Clark is.

At his core, Bruce is a selfish creature. He protects Gotham even when so many people would say that it’s a lost cause, that it’s more trouble than it’s worth, because he doesn’t know anything but Gotham. He protects Gotham because it’s the only home he’s ever known, the city his parents would have happily died for even if Gotham hadn’t taken their lives by force. He wants to die in the same city where his mother and father are buried, fight for the very city where they spilled their blood.

And the team, fighting to resurrect Clark, working his ass off getting the team off the ground—well. It’s what Clark would have wanted, after all, what Clark still wants to this day. All Clark wants is to protect this world, Lois and Martha especially, while Bruce is the type of person who would do anything to protect everyone he thinks of as family but save the world in the process.

The team was Bruce’s attempt to make Clark proud, to be the kind of person who Clark would be happy to call a friend, and it worked for a while. It would’ve kept working, but Bruce is shit at emotions, shit at not being selfish, not thinking that maybe, because he has Clark’s name, it means he has a right to do anything but support Clark.

As it is, Bruce  _ wants _ . He wants too much and he knows it, knows that there’s a disconnect between what he wants and what he should do. He remembers his name on Clark’s nape in sleek, curling letters the way his mother taught him, and he thinks that maybe someday, Clark will look at Bruce and feel the same way that Bruce does now. But Clark already has Lois, who is headstrong and stubborn, but gentle in a way that Bruce can never hope to be. She’s a burning sun in her own right, on equal ground with Clark, while Bruce is just a moon whose light depends on people like them—people like Clark. Even if Clark were open to loving another person, it wouldn’t be Bruce. It couldn’t possibly be Bruce.

He knows all this, and that’s why it’s all the more painful when he sees Clark again.

Clark comes by the lake house on Friday, a day before Bruce expects to see him again. Bruce is unprepared, left with only a few seconds to breathe between seeing Clark through the surveillance cameras and Alfred letting him into the Cave.

Bruce is frozen in his chair when Clark walks into his space. His eyes are fixed on the screen in front of him, but he can’t actually see the report he’s typing up, instead hyper-sensitive to Clark’s movements at the edge of his vision.

“Hey, Bruce,” Clark says. He places a hand on the back of Bruce’s chair and leans into Bruce’s space all at once.

“Clark,” Bruce bites out, and it’s full of the tension that he feels. Bruce wills himself to relax, to unclench his jaw and breathe through his nose. Then, when he feels like he can speak without sounding like he wants anything but to be here in this situation, he says, “What are you doing here?”

“I did say I wanted to help with Billy, so I just wanted to check in before tomorrow. Should I not have?” Clark says, and there’s a tinge of caution and uncertainty in his voice that Bruce catches. He finally gives in and looks up at Clark, only to see that same uncertainty reflected in his face.

Bruce looks away, says, “It’s fine,” even though it’s definitely not. He knows what he’s supposed to do. He should pull up the document outlining the training regime he’s planning for Billy, explain it to Clark and give him what he came here for. It would be so much easier, though, to just send Clark on his way, to tell him that he’d rather not explain something twice, especially when Billy’s training starts tomorrow. It’ll be easier, until all of Bruce’s dismissals pile up and bury him in a grave of his own making.

He grimaces, leans forward in his chair so he can get a little more space between him and Clark, but just as he finds the document he needs, Clark turns his chair until they’re face-to-face and Bruce has no excuse not to look at Clark anymore.

“It’s not fine, Bruce,” Clark says. His lips are set in a frown, his eyes full of concern Bruce doesn’t deserve. “You know you can talk to me, right? And Diana too. We have your back.”

Bruce glares at Clark. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, hoping for the best, hoping that Clark will leave it there. But today, Clark doesn’t let him off so easily.

“No, Bruce. I know better,” Clark says. He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in Bruce, and it feels like a stake to Bruce’s heart.

Bruce sighs. Now he can’t insist on it without complicating things or signing himself up for more concern from Clark, and maybe Diana too. The problem is he doesn’t know how to appease Clark without lying, doesn’t know how he can talk about the problem when the problem involves Clark himself.

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Bruce tries, but then Clark’s eyebrows furrow and his cheeks flush red, and Bruce realizes it was the wrong thing to say.

“I want to worry about it, because I care about you,” Clark says. He crosses his arms over his chest and Bruce finds that he can’t look away, that he doesn’t  _ want  _ to let himself look away. He has to face this head-on. He owes that much to Clark. He has to air something—anything—out between them so Clark can go home with a weight off his shoulders, even if he has to lie his way through it.

“I appreciate that,” Bruce starts. His tone is placating, like the way it always is when anyone has enough of his bullshit. It never works, not on Alfred or Diana or Dick or  _ anyone _ , but Bruce hasn’t stopped trying. “But—”

“This isn’t a one-sided relationship, Bruce,” Clark says, interrupting him. “You’re not the only one allowed to do things for me or to listen to my problems, but you never let me do anything for you.”

Bruce—Bruce doesn’t know what to say. Something clicks in his brain, and his chest aches because this argument is painfully familiar. He had a similar one with Dick, had it with Jason, and now he’s having it with Clark. Somehow, in the middle of his self-imposed torture, once again drowned by his grief, he forgot that a relationship is a two-way street. He can’t seem to stop making the same mistakes.

Clark gets his comfort from a small pool of people, and to be one of those few feels like a privilege that Bruce doesn’t deserve. He’s been using it as an excuse, using it to justify his actions lately, but he should have just taken a step back and realized that he was putting words in Clark’s mouth, coming to his own conclusions like he’s prone to do. Clark just wants to be friends, wants to build a bond that they were deprived of by Lex and by death, by circumstances that pitted them against each other, and Bruce should have realized it sooner. Even if he finds out about how Bruce feels about him, Bruce can’t just assume that it’ll be burnt bridges and dancing around each other every time they work together.

Unthinkingly, Bruce’s hand comes up to his chest, resting over Clark’s name on his skin. It stings, a reminder of who he and Clark should be to each other—for each other. A reminder that he should do better.

Bruce stands up, faces Clark like he should, with their eyes level, on equal ground.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says, and he hopes he sounds as sincere as he feels.

Clark closes his eyes, lets out a long breath like he’s unloading all the tension and frustration that’s built up inside him. Bruce can’t help but feel relieved when he sees that the look in Clark’s eyes is softer when he opens them again.

“I should be the one saying that. I blew up at you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry,” Clark says, which is ridiculous, and Bruce says as much.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t treating you like I should have, and you were right to confront me about it,” Bruce says. Then, he smiles, a tiny upturn of his mouth. “I would have heard about it one way or another eventually. If not from you, it’ll be Alfred or Diana.”

Clark huffs out a laugh. “You make it sound like I’m not the biggest threat to you.”

Bruce startles, because the thought of Clark being a threat to Bruce is so odd. He doesn’t think about  _ before _ , because that only brings up a whole slew of guilt Bruce doesn’t want to deal with, but now, it’s just—laughable, the thought of Clark hurting him. Clark certainly is a threat in the way that lions or bears are inherently dangerous, but to Bruce—to Bruce whose name he bears, who he’s forgiven even when Bruce has done him so much wrong, Clark is not a threat.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” Bruce says, and his tone leaves no room for argument.

“How do you know?” Clark asks, and while his words are doubtful, his eyes wide and hopeful. There is conviction in Bruce, complete confidence that he doesn’t have to dig deep for, and Clark can hear it, can see it clearly.

The sight of Clark is overwhelming, pulling Bruce in further and further, refusing to let go until he’s addicted to it, until he’d do anything, sacrifice anything just to see it again. He’s spiralling again, but he’s aware enough to let himself get pulled along instead of resisting like he did before. It’s better this way. Seeing Clark happy, hopeful, feeling all the things that he represents—it makes something settle inside Bruce, like a boat finally coming to shore after days on the sea.

“I have this, don’t I? This  _ must  _ mean something,” Bruce says. His hand is over his heart, tracing Clark’s name with his fingers. He’s looked at it enough times in a mirror to know where it starts and where it ends without having to glance down at his chest.

Clark looks at him, from his hand on his chest to his face, searching. He reaches out with a hand, but stops midway, hesitating.

“Bruce?” he says, confusion bleeding into his voice.

It creeps up on Bruce, the realization that Clark has no idea what he’s talking about. Every second of tense silence that passes is another second that Bruce spends in terror and shame. He backs up, heart jumping wildly in his chest, and he wants to  _ get away _ . He hadn’t realized that Clark didn’t know, and now Bruce wishes that he could have kept it from Clark until his death, when his name will fade to almost nothing, and any evidence of potential will be moot, holding no threat to come crashing down on Bruce. Instead, Bruce blurts it out like a fool overextending himself.

Bruce feels the edge of the desk digging into his back, and his knees are bent like he’s ready to bolt. His eyes are stinging and his vision is blurring from the tears that have welled up without his permission, but he clenches his jaw and powers through. He’s familiar enough with mouthing off excuses that they come to him easily, already on the tip of his tongue.

But Clark doesn’t let him say anything, doesn’t let him  _ do _ anything. Instead, Clark closes the distance between them faster than Bruce can escape, eyes slightly unfocused the way they are when Clark’s using his X-ray vision.

Bruce doesn’t know what he expects, but it’s not for Clark to look up at him and smile, wide and sweet and  _ happy _ . He does not expect Clark to lean in and kiss him either.

It’s everything and nothing like Bruce expects it to feel like. His heart is out of his control, and all Bruce can think about are Clark’s hands traversing his spine and Clark’s mouth warm and soft against his. Bruce doesn’t have room to think about implications or consequences, just that he wants this and never wants it to end, never wants Clark to pull away. So he wraps a hand around Clark’s nape, fingers tangling in Clark’s hair, and deepens the kiss.

It takes a while for them to resurface, faces red and out of breath. They keep each other close, breathing the same air.

“Bruce,” Clark murmurs, and it’s just his name, but there’s a promise hidden beneath it, of hours upon hours of talking, making sure they’re on the same page, but also of  _ more _ —more of this, more of them, together.

“Clark,” Bruce answers, and it’s as much of a promise as Clark has made.

For now, it’s enough.

  
  
  
  


(Clark finds out that Bruce’s name is on the back of his neck and sulks for a good minute about having to use a mirror to see it.

Bruce wraps a hand around Clark’s neck, promises to never let him forget about it, and pulls him in for another kiss.)

  
  
  
  
  


(Clark sneaks a kiss while Billy goes through a Batman-approved fitness test. Barry sees it and has to stop cheering Billy on as he chokes on his spit, face twisting into a grimace.

“It’s like watching my parents kiss,” he says, which only makes Bruce grin, eyes sparkling with mischief. Clark snorts and kisses him again.

“Oh my god, get a room,” Barry says.

They don’t, because there are kids they need to supervise. Later, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up on [tumblr](http://clqrkkent.tumblr.com/)!! and please remember to check out the [art](http://catgoboom.tumblr.com/post/173702544095/title-serendipity-author-clqrkkent)!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] Serendipity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580831) by [catgoboom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catgoboom/pseuds/catgoboom)




End file.
